


Dimplomatic is

by winterysomnium



Category: Voltron - Fandom, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Keith has no modesty, M/M, Mentions of Blood, SHEITH - Freeform, Shiro is pining, fake married trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:15:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7751896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>to not correct these aliens that we in fact are not married, at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dimplomatic is

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt by an anonymous prompter: "How about Sheith and getting alien-married? Or trapped together in a small space together? Pining Shiro because we don't have enough of that?". Story is also posted on my tumblr, winterysomnium.

“This is kinda --” Shiro pauses, looks for adjectives, for something to dissipate the awkward, cramped feeling between them; Keith mimics his mouth.

“miniature?” he supplies, brushing past Shiro’s elbow to take another step, two, into the room; Shiro holds his helmet in front of him, helplessly, he feels like a giant, overgrown and stiff.

“I was going for ‘cramped’ but. Yeah.”

“Didn’t they say this was their biggest lodging area?”

“I guess we can be glad they don’t get guests that often,” Shiro says, closing the heavy curtain, the doors.

“What if we told them we are not actually married? They’d give us separate rooms,” Keith offers, tries to balance his helmet on the uneven, wobbly table; it topples back into his palms.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Shiro sighs, shuffling his feet. “The royal trinity seemed delighted to meet diplomats who were also -- not only work partners. And as much as I hate to deceive them, we need them to want to trade with us,” admitting the lie, Shiro rubs at his neck, guilty, but firm.    

“At least it’s only the two of us. How do they fit on these, when there’s usually three or four of them?” Keith asks, studying the bed, puzzled; the elevated, carefully crafted form spread above the shiny floor, generously covered with fuzzy, soft squares, connected like homemade quilts Shiro remembers from his childhood room, in layers of two or threes; Keith pokes their bellies, tickly and blue.

“They _are_ smaller, in general. Slimmer,” Shiro suggest the inhabitants’ shape, with his hands, wrists close, gaps narrow, thin.

“Do you think we’ll fit?” Keith asks, unzipping the back of his suit, gloves thrown onto his helmet, stripping, right there; Shiro forgets to look away.

“I’ll --” he clears his throat, focusing back on the room, on the shells opening up the roof to the sky, grey and swirling, calm. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he says, decisively, toeing off his shoes; Keith sends him a look, stubborn, set.

“No, you’re not.”

“It’s the best option here.”

“I’m the one used to crappy beds; I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“That’s _exactly_ the reason why you should sleep on the proper bed this time,” Shiro argues; Keith unbuttons his pants.

“I’m not letting you sleep on the floor. You’re the head,” Keith says, and maybe they should have sent someone else here, maybe Shiro isn’t a good choice, maybe he’s _never_ a good choice, because -- because if he didn’t go, he wouldn’t have memorized the dips of Keith’s silhoulette, the rise of his muscles, the practiced, regal way Keith undresses; they could have stopped the distant longing, the selfish, inappropriate wish.    

“Keith --” Shiro’s voice disappears, as Keith’s fingers work on his boots, his hair getting trapped on the surface of his mouth and when he’s done, swift, Shiro recognizes a memory, something between them; Keith borrowing his tank top and it seems he has grown into it, finally, has washed it, hundreds of times, with or without Shiro’s soap, Shiro doesn’t know but it looks loved, looks worn and Shiro doesn’t dare to look lower, to look underneath.

“We’ll both sleep on the bed,” he decides, losing the black highlights of his uniform, left with his skin, left with the cold metal that never warms, never heats unless it harms, unless it hurts someone, unless it marks him with blood, never his own.

(Keith waits for him, there are socks on his feet and Shiro loves him more for it, wants him in more than his past; Keith tries out the sheets.)

There’s barely enough space for them, barely enough to share, and even with Shiro’s shoulders pressed against the walls Keith’s knees dig into his legs, hard; Keith’s face close enough to kiss but he ends up elbowing Shiro, instead, a jolt of pain, and this just -- isn’t working out, at all.

Keith switches sides, with a grunt, Shiro leans away and it’s Keith grabbing his hand that saves him from tumbling back, his balance lost somewhere between turning to his side and glimpsing Keith’s thighs, warm and close.

“Thank you,” he says and Keith sits up, hides his disarray hair behind his neck, behind the curve of his ear.

“This is difficult,” he says, disheveled, judges the space they have, the space they take; Shiro sits up, too.

“Who could have known wearing the same clothes in red and black means that you’re married here,” Shiro sighs and Keith hums, contemplates their fit.

“I think we’ll fit if you lie down on your back,” he says and Shiro gives it a try, reluctantly; nudges Keith’s hip, with his arm.

“I pretty much take up all of the space,” he grumbles, like he’s angry, with himself, with his skeleton, built this way; he looks up at Keith. “Where are you going to lie if there’s no space?” he asks and Keith touches Shiro’s wrist, gently, and the metal whispers, as he pulls at it, pulls it away from Shiro’s side.

“Here,”  Keith points, points at the angle between Shiro’s hips and the metallic colds, a space closer than they’ve ever been and Shiro -- Shiro doesn’t realize he’s not breathing, properly, until Keith falters, lets go of his arm.

“Or on the floor. That’s still an option.” He shrugs but Shiro holds _him_ now, curls his fingers around Keith’s own.

“Okay,” he says; he nods. “But maybe --” shifting, self consciously, he faces Keith’s doubt. “Maybe my left side will be better. The metal is cold. Harder,” he explains and Keith climbs over him, low, straddling him, for a second, for a second too long -- Shiro wants him to stay.

(Keith’s weight is there and then gone again, a falling star, desert heat and Shiro moves his arm, opens his side and Keith lies underneath, on top of Shiro’s heart, his lungs; Keith’s hair becomes a tattoo.)

((Shiro blushes; looks away.))

“Is there a spider or something?” Keith asks, into the quiet, into the warm sheets, squinting at the horizons of the walls, Shiro tenses, confused.

“No. Why?”

“Your heartbeat’s fast.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Are you scared of something?” Keith asks and Shiro feels the question grow, all the way through his throat, through the hollow of his chest, he holds in his thoughts.

“No. No, I’m just -- thinking.”

“Are you uncomfortable?”

“I’m good. Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“Shiro?”

“Yeah?”

“You can want things too,” Keith says, softly, firmly, like he’s scolding him, scolding him for not knowing this, for not knowing he’s allowed to be happy, to be free, to be.

(Shiro’s heartbeat sings, in his head, in Keith’s hair and Keith finds Shiro’s hand and holds it, knuckle to knuckle, thumb to thumb.)

He holds Shiro’s fingers, and Shiro smiles.

He can want things, too.

(He can want anything he wants.)


End file.
